


Acquired Distaste

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes wants to know why Watson avoids mince pies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acquired Distaste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardboiledbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/gifts).



  
It should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with Watson – either through his writings, or personal acquaintance – that he is not a particularly choosy eater. Watson enjoys his meals. More to the point, his privations in the Army, and those I surmise he experienced in childhood, have left him profoundly unparticular about the quality of his meals. If there is food, and it is not spoiled or otherwise genuinely inedible, then Watson is grateful for it. He is not unappreciative of fine cooking, but he is neither a gourmand nor a glutton. He simply appreciates food for the luxury it has occasionally been over the course of his lifetime.  
  
Which is why, when he figuratively turned up his nose at the mince pies brought to us by a grateful client, I found myself puzzling over what would otherwise be a trivial matter.  
  
I say figuratively, and I mean it. Watson would never show the slightest discourtesy to anyone, much less the tearful, grateful matron who brought us the pies. He exclaimed over how pretty they looked, and complimented her skill. But I know him well, and so I saw the reluctance with which he took a bite, and noted his skill in maneuvering so that he did not have to take a second. The lady left none the wiser. I, on the other hand, was intrigued. At first I thought that Watson merely prevaricated about the client’s skill as a baker, and that the pies were in fact likely inedible. But I tasted his slice, and it seemed perfectly fine. And when as knowledgeable a witness as Mrs. Hudson deems a pie acceptable, as she did, then I must conclude that the fault lies not with the pies, but with something else.  
  
( _Nothing_ about Watson is trivial, at least not to me. But that is another matter.)  
  
So I kept my eyes open and observed my friend as opportunity presented itself. The chances to do so were not lacking, as mince pies are often on offer in December, in bake shops and at social events, such as Watson likes to attend: his club’s annual Christmas dinner, a holiday gathering of the Inspectors at the Yard; a charity ball for the local hospital. And I learned through observing him at these events that there was something indeed about mince pies that my Watson disliked. He would always show interest when they appeared – indeed, somewhat more interest than with other puddings, at least as first. But then his face would fall slightly, and his smile would grow more polite than genuine, and he would never take a taste if he could avoid it.  
  
From his expression, and a few other clues, I theorized that his dislike of mince pies sprang from some event in his early years. But it was only a theory, and I was at a loss as to how to test it, or to explain why he initially showed such interest in an item he then showed such consistent aversion.  
  
When in doubt, I find it best to do one of two things: encourage a witness to divulge what he knows, or consult an expert. Prior experience with Watson told me that a discussion of his youth would not be welcomed; it was one of the few areas where my normally transparent and open friend grew taciturn and easily offended. Logically, then, I turned to an expert.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson,” I said one afternoon, while Watson was out, “I was wondering if I might have a word.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows and paused in clearing away the luncheon plates. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. What about?”  
  
I explained in a few words what I had noticed about Watson’s reaction to mince pies. Mrs. Hudson looked thoughtful, and asked a few insightful questions of her own. (When it comes to matters within her own sphere, I consider Mrs. Hudson to be one of the five most observant women in London.) At last she nodded. “I believe I may know the answer,” she told me, “but I should like to conduct an experiment of my own, just to clarify a few things.”  
  
She did not ask my permission, merely told me with the understanding that I would acknowledge and approve. Which of course I did. Who was I to argue against scientific investigation, or testing a theory and observing the results?  
  
So I was not surprised in the slightest when after a fortnight, just before Christmas, our dinner fare included individual mince pies as a ‘special treat.’ Watson greeted the news with his usual politeness, but no genuine enthusiasm. However, both I and Mrs. Hudson observed the way his face went from polite pleasure to real delight as he broke the crust and first inhaled the aroma. He took an enthusiastic first bite, and his face lit up even further. Curious, I tried a taste of my own even as I kept a sharp eye on Watson’s reactions. It was more savory than I expected, with a very different character than the pies brought by our client.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson, this is wonderful!” he complimented her. “This, now this has to be real mince, just like my mother used to make when I was small.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson gave him a pleased smile. “It’s my own family recipe. Your mother must have used beef, just as mine did.”  
  
“Yes! It isn’t proper mincemeat without actual meat. My father’s second wife - ” Watson cut himself off, clearly rethinking what he was about to say. “Her recipe only contained fruit, no meat, and it’s never seemed quite right to me, even though that seems to be the fashion.”  
  
And just like that the mystery was solved. It wasn’t the mincemeat Watson disliked, so much as unhappy memories of his father’s second wife, and the contrast with earlier, happier memories of his own mother. I sat there and watched as Watson’s smiles returned when Mrs. Hudson agreed with him that the only proper mincemeat had beef or venison in it, and that she’d be sure to make him a batch every year, now that she knew there was someone else in the house with a proper appreciation for it. She rolled her eyes at me as she said it, but I merely nodded, content to be the false subject of her jibe. Watson was happy, and Mrs. Hudson was happy, and I? I was content to watch it all.


End file.
